London Calling
by Joon
Summary: Harry Dresden has a strange dream. Or does he? Crossover with the Dresden Files TV Series  because it was only a matter of time


The last thing Harry remembered was going to sleep in his own bed, in his own apartment. So it was a little disconcerting to wake up on what felt like the hard, cold floor with two pairs of eyes staring down at him. Or rather, a pair of eyes and a pair of sunglasses.

"What did you bring him for?" asked Sunglasses, staring down at the fallen wizard. He had dark hair and a British accent that was heavily colored with irritation. Staring at him, Harry noted he looked like a reference illustration in a dictionary under the heading "troublemaker."

"You said we were going to resolve the skull situation," responded the other man, who sounded somewhat distressed and also very British. He looked like a reference illustration one would find in a dictionary under the heading "librarian."

Instinct told Harry to get up and start assessing the level of danger he was in. But somewhere between his brain creating that order and sending it to his body, there was a thick fog that prevented the process from happening. This inability to control his motor functions would have terrified Harry, but for some reason the fog was also a gentle balm that soothed him enough to dial down the terror he should be feeling to a gentle annoyance instead.

"I did, so why's HE on my floor?" Sunglasses demanded.

His floor? There was still a heavy grogginess that fogged his mind, but Harry managed to move his eyeballs around a little and realized he didn't recognize his surroundings.

_Great. Kidnapped by two British guys. Okay, don't panic._

"You said to get the wizard!" British Librarian protested.

"I meant the dead one!"

"You never specified."

"Oh for hell's sake, Aziraphale! Wasn't it obvious I meant the dead one?"

"No, it wasn't," sniffed the now named Aziraphale, looking defensive. "You could have been a bit more specific, Crowley. And in any case, I never liked this idea."

The now named Crowley shook his head in exasperation. "Very simple, this task. Get the skull, I said."

"You never said! And I don't see why we couldn't have just gone to America in the first place," said Aziraphale, sounding put off. "Bringing him to London has just disoriented the poor man."

"He was never supposed to come to London in the first place!"

_London? Great. Kidnapped by Monty Python TO London. Okay…yeah, panic._

There was a short zapping sound that emanated from the dark suit of Crowley. The dark-haired man grimaced as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of smoking black metal.

"He's burnt out my mobile," Crowley complained. "Bloody wizards," he muttered, moving away from Harry's sight while pushing uselessly at the deceased phone's buttons.

"He's just getting upset," Aziraphale defended. Leaning back down toward Harry, the blond man's blue eyes looked angelically apologetic. "I am so terribly sorry about all of this. Don't you worry. We'll set it right," he reassured.

And for some bizarre reason, Harry actually felt somewhat calmed. The serene feeling lasted a few seconds before Crowley pushed his head back into Harry's line of view.

"Just so this isn't a total loss," he said, tossing the useless phone over his shoulder. "I don't suppose you'd give me the skull for…" He pulled out a sleek looking snakeskin wallet and rummaged its contents. Stray business cards and receipts snowed down on Harry. "50 quid?" Crowley offered, pulling out a handful of notes.

Harry tried to get his voice and mouth to obey him and state that under no circumstances was he selling anything to anyone. Unfortunately, all he managed was a series of angry blinks of his eyes.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale admonished. "Those aren't the terms! And besides, he won't sell you the skull and you know it." He smiled sweetly at Harry. "He's far too nice."

Crowley heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I KNOW. Entire clan of sinners and the skull would end up with the only one who has strong morals."

"I think it's rather lovely."

"Yeah, you would."

In conjunction with getting increasingly confused at the conversation happening before him, Harry's thoughts began to move even more sluggishly in his brain. As he got more disoriented, he fought harder to try and break out of the thickening haze. There was a crackling sound in the distance and both Aziraphale and Crowley looked behind them at something beyond Harry's line of vision. The acidic scent of burning electronics filled the air.

"He's burnt out my flat screen!" Crowley exclaimed, angrily.

"Stop being so overwrought, my dear," Aziraphale reprimanded. "You can't blame him for getting overwhelmed. We did kidnap him. And I don't think he's enjoying whatever it is you're doing to his mind."

"Who's blaming him?" asked Crowley. "I'm blaming YOU. If I knew you were going to botch this up, I would have suggested for us to meet at your place. The most modern thing you own is that bell above your shop door."

"I told you this wasn't a good idea from the very beginning. Gabriel is sure to ask questions now," Aziraphale tsked.

"Well, Gabriel's also the one breathing down your neck about resolving this so just tell him to bugger off or wait another millennia."

Aziraphale looked mildly uncomfortable with that suggestion. "I don't think he'll respond very well to that."

"Oh, never mind, angel," sighed Crowley, looking defeated. Kneeling down by Harry's head, he gave the wizard a long- suffering glare that filled Harry's entire vision. "Right, sorry about the mix up. Why don't you go back to sleep?" he suggested.

"And when you wake up, you'll be remarkably refreshed and feel very happy and optimistic about where life will lead you," Aziraphale added pleasantly, budging in to Harry's eyesight and crowding Crowley's space.

While his eyes were hidden by the black sunglasses, Harry got the feeling the dark haired man was rolling them. "Wonderful. Off you go, then," he declared.

Harry heard more than saw Crowley snapping his fingers. Suddenly, it felt like an invisible rope tied to his waist was yanking at him, unceremoniously dragging him down a very long, very dark hole in the ground. In the distance, he could hear Aziraphale's disapproving voice murmur out, "Really, my dear. You could be a bit more gentle."

GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGO

When Harry woke up, he felt like he'd slept for a good 12 hours, despite his clock telling him it was only 7AM. He felt well-rested without a trace of tiredness in his body. Only…something felt off. As if he'd misplaced something.

Walking down from his loft, he took a short inventory of his surroundings. Hockey stick? By the sofa, right where he left it. Drumstick? Kitchen counter. Also where he'd left it. Keys? Front desk. Jacket? Desk chair. Cursed skull housing dead sorcerer and his arsenal of snark? Sitting on a pile of ancient tomes.

Yup, everything was just as he left it.

So why did it feel like he'd forgotten something?

He wandered into the kitchen. Maybe he just needed some coffee. Caffeine usually did a nice job of clearing his head. As he began to heat up some water, something scratched his neck from inside the tee shirt he'd slept in. Reaching behind, Harry extracted from the inside collar a piece of crumpled paper. Unfolding it, he saw it was a gas receipt.

For a gas station located somewhere outside of Manchester, England.

Dated 1967.

Harry's wizardly senses, along with the logistic sensibilities endowed to most humans, shrieked that the appearance of that receipt was not normal. He hadn't been alive back in 1967 to buy gas. Let alone buy gas in England. The only person he knew who'd ever been to England was Bob. And the last time he'd been there and corporeal, they hadn't yet invented gas. Or cars for that matter.

So where had this come from? And why had it been stuck in his shirt? A shirt he distinctly remembered being paper-free when he went to bed last night.

Harry supposed he could do a location spell with it and track down the original owner. But just as he began to make some plans, he felt himself losing interest. That event alone should have triggered more suspicion, but as his interest in the receipt and its origins began to bleed away, so did his detective principles of looking into anything out of the ordinary. Yeah, sure, the receipt was weird but his water was nearly boiling for coffee and it already looked like it was going to be a nice day out today.

So maybe he'd go for a walk instead. Visit the park. Enjoy the air.

Absently, Harry folded the receipt and left it on his kitchen counter. From there it drifted down, behind the sink, unseen by the wizard, who busied himself with finding a mug for his coffee. By the time he took his first sip, all thoughts of the receipt from 1967 were gone.

GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGO

"Oh, well," said Crowley, giving it up for loss. He put his wallet back into his suit jacket and watched as Aziraphale shoved a suitcase into the backseat of the Bentley. Why it was he insisted on packing when traveling was beyond Crowley.

"Was it very important?" asked Aziraphale from the back as he made sure the suitcase was firmly wedged in.

"Nah, just a souvenir from that time I bought petrol."

"Oh. And why did you buy petrol again?"

"Uh…can't remember," lied Crowley. Looking back on it, it was kind of embarrassing. "Are you done back there?" he asked instead.

"Yes."

Coming up to the front, Aziraphale settled himself in the passenger seat. "What did Gabriel say when you talked to him?" asked Crowley as he keyed up the car. There was an unintelligible muttering sound. "Sorry? Didn't catch that."

"I didn't…well, that is to say…" Aziraphale dithered.

"You didn't what?" Crowley pulled out into the busy street, deftly cutting off a taxi and frightening several pedestrians as the Bentley nearly hopped up onto the curb just as Crowley had intended.

"I didn't…tell him exactly," Aziraphale admitted.

Taking his eyes off the road, Crowley stared at his passenger in a pantomime of shock. "I'm scandalized. YOU lied?"

"I didn't lie," the blond man defended. "I simply didn't see the point of telling him when he didn't ask."

Laughing, Crowley pushed the Bentley's speed up to an even 100mph. "Might be hope for you yet, angel."

THE END


End file.
